


Shack #11

by julad



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-31
Updated: 2001-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julad/pseuds/julad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I first returned to Inuvik on the trail of the killers of my partner. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Shack #11

I first returned to Inuvik on the trail of the killers of my partner.  Naturally, they were quickly apprehended with no further casualties, and their drug pipeline from Russia soon dismantled with the invaluable assistance of the local authorities.  I was several months chasing down loose ends--suppliers, distributors, waystations--ensuring that justice was served and the lucrative Northern Heroin Trail would remain forever closed.

By the time the matter was resolved to my satisfaction, I had of necessity made repairs to my Father's cabin, and through shared purpose made valuable friends among the local population.  It seemed only natural, then, to end my leave of absence from the RCMP by requesting a permanent transfer to Inuvik.

Life here is... satisfying.  To wake up cold, to step outdoors to fill the kettle with snow and gaze over the white horizon, feels appropriate.  To start a day in hollow silence is easier than fighting a city's clamourous sounds and smells.  Composure comes easily here, as does kindness.  To nod at familiar faces in the small street, to exchange pleasantries in the supply store, to discuss the weather at a hockey game, to receive orders and information from the Yellowknife office -- there are many small pleasures to be found here.  It is a relief, one finds, to go about life amid people as isolated as oneself is, and be regarded as such without judgement.  One gets on with life, here in Inuvik, although American visitors sometimes comment loudly that we have escaped from it.

There is no escape, I know this.  Nights are long, here, sometimes days long, and sometimes lit so brightly that sleep is an unattainable dream.  Ghosts have a habit, in this place, of lingering, but I am immeasurably fond of the ghost who visits me.  He lacks the tenacity of my father, or perhaps his meddlesome purpose, because my ghost never speaks.  He leans against the wall, or slouches on the sofa, watching me.  Sometimes I look up from my dinner and see him sitting in the chair across the table.  I smile, of course, and he always smiles back as he fades.

To leave here is unthinkable.  I grow unsettled at the very thought.  My ghost is too precious to risk losing amid too much noise, too much colour, too much distraction.  His body rests too near by, at the end of an aborted adventure.  Duty, it seems, must always cut pleasure off at the knees, but if duty calls me to another region, it will go unanswered.  Duty took Ray from me, and I am done with Duty the minute it would take me from Ray.

My audience, it seems, grows impatient with my tale.  He only asked how I found Inuvik; he is new in town and this is, perhaps, more information than he desired from our interaction.  I hand over the money, and accept my package and the change.

Thank you kindly, I say, and take the paper-wrapped bottle home to my ghost.

(500 words)


End file.
